


Two, They Say, Is Company

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Loud Sex, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex in a TARDIS, Swearing, asexual except for time lords, don't wake the neighbours, mildly pornographic, missy has needs, sexual needs that is, special alone-time, twissy, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: What begins as a solo effort becomes a game for two when Missy decides to join in.





	Two, They Say, Is Company

It's night on the TARDIS, relatively speaking, and the Doctor is fairly sure that everyone else is asleep. The only sound is the ship humming quietly to itself, and he's alone and he doesn't feel tired enough to sleep. The activity that immediately suggests itself is relaxing and enjoyable and, well, why not?

He thinks about Missy, because she's beautiful and clever and if nothing else she's a Time Lord ( _Lady_ , he hears her correction in his head). It's stupid, really, that he can stare at a naked human and feel nothing and yet all it takes from Missy is a moment of chaste physical contact and he's so turned on it hurts. She's still a long way from redemption, but he cant deny that he wants her, always has and probably always will.

So, he thinks of Missy.

He unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his trousers, his movements slow because he wants to stretch the whole experience out. He lowers the zip with infinite patience, imagining his hand replaced by Missy's fingers, or maybe even her teeth. A quick fumble amongst fabric and then the bedroom air is cool on his cock. 

He touches himself carefully, just fingertips at first. It's the lightest possible sensation, rough skin on smooth, whispering along the length. Then a bit more pressure, with just the slightest hint of fingernails. He thinks of Missy's breath on his flesh, the soft texture of her hair as it falls around her face on those rare occasions that she lets him see her with it down.

His fingers curl around his cock, making a loose fist that with softer skin could easily be hers. He tightens his grip, shifts his thoughts from her hands to a far more intimate part of her body. He begins to stroke himself slowly, imagining what she might feel like. She'd be hot, and wet, and probably quite tight. He's half-hard by the time he lets himself think about entering her, about sliding in carefully with their bodies pressed close. 

He's certain that she'd moan, but he wonders how loud she'd be. Would she call out his name? Which name would she use? Would she close her eyes when pressed into her heat?

There's a knock on the old wood of his bedroom door. He freezes, caught in the act. He holds his breath in case it somehow gives him away. He can ignore the knock, right? It's probably not anything important, maybe someone has woken up and wants to see if he's still awake to chat about God knows what. He could be asleep, a world away from hearing knuckles on the door.

The knock repeats. Someone is persistent, a more than casual interest in seeing him. With a soft sigh he tucks himself back into his trousers – zip, button, belt, fastened in all proper and correct. The fabric stretches to cover his obvious erection, but it'll go away eventually on its own and maybe nobody will notice in the meantime.

He stands and walks over to the door, turns the knob and pulls it open just a fraction. He hides behind the wooden surface, filling the gap with his face and no more. 

It's Missy who stands before him, and it takes all his self-control not to blush. It's okay, she doesn't know, there's no way she could possibly know. 

“I can hear you,” she says. 

“What?” He was quiet, he's quite certain of that. He was almost silent, really. “I wasn't making any noise.”

She taps a finger against her temple. “Mental shields, Doctor,” she says, “you've always been terrible at keeping me out when you're distracted.”

So, she knows. Shit. 

He attempts straightforward denial. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Missy puts her hand on the door and pushes. “Let me in.”

He pushes back. “I'm trying to sleep.”

He'd have sworn he must be stronger than her (he's taller, broader, and male) but the gap between door and frame widens and she slips past him into the room. 

“Missy,” he says, and the sentence ends before it can start when she shoves him against the wall, trapping him between it and the woman he was masturbating over not two minutes ago. 

She holds him in place with a hand on his chest, the other dipping down to cup him through his trousers. She presses, rubs. Her touch is far from gentle.

“I'm flattered,” she says, “really I am. It's always nice to know that you've made an impression on someone. How often do you think about me when you touch yourself?” 

He'd like to have an answer that makes him seem innocent of all charges, but he can't help moaning as she moves her hand.

She removes her hand from his chest and uses it to unfasten his belt. “It's been a long time for me, Doctor. Stuck in that vault with you refusing to touch me in case you lose the moral high ground.” She pops the button. “That ends tonight. You're going to give me what I want.”

Suddenly she's dropping, sinking to her knees. She moves quickly, catching the zip between her teeth and tugging it down. He hears himself make a stupid little strangled noise, and then her mouth is on his cock and he says, “Fuck.”

It's just the tip, but she swirls her tongue over and around it and he closes his eyes tight because it's already too much. She sucks him in, another inch, another obscenity torn from him. There is nothing in the universe but the heat of her mouth, the pressure of her lips, the inventive licking of her tongue. His hands fist at his sides, but he knows better than to twine his fingers in her hair and attempt to guide her. She's hated that in every body he's ever met, and the memory of more than one painful bite is enough to stop him trying. 

Her mouth slides over the still-hardening flesh, she takes his length easily and without hesitation. His hands twitch across the wall, trying to find a place to rest that simply isn't there. 

“Missy,” he says, but then “Fuck” because there really are no other words. He wants her to stop, he wants her to keep going, he wants to know how he ever thought he could live without this.

She stops without warning, pulling her mouth away and leaving him hard and wet. He opens his eyes, watches as she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and gets to her feet. 

“Bed,” she says, and the tone of her voice tells him that even if he wanted to argue she wouldn't listen.

He kicks off his trousers and his underwear, pulls his t-shirt over his head as he follows her across the room. Missy undresses quickly as she moves, discarding her clothes on the floor. She stops to open the drawer on the bedside unit, takes out the pack of condoms that he keeps there on the off-chance, just in case, because he never knows what might happen. He wonders how she knew where to find them. She removes one from the packaging and presses it into his hand.

She lies down in the centre of his bed, waits for him to join her and spreads herself open. He kneels between her legs, fumbling clumsily with the condom wrapper and taking far too long to get the damn thing on. He looks up to see if she's laughing at him, but her expression is lust and hunger and not much else. 

“Do you need... I mean... do you want...” He stumbles over the words, his lips shy even when he's naked and about to have sex with her.

“I'm wet enough,” she says. “It's those noises you made while I was sucking you off, they really turned me on.”

He moves in, covering her body with his own. He presses against her, begins to enter her slowly, carefully.

Missy groans her frustration. “Don't tease me,” she says, almost a growl. 

He takes the hint and pushes in quickly, filling her with one easy thrust. She moans, writhes, drags her fingers through his hair. He stills to give her time to adjust to the intrusion, but she grinds against him, says “Fuck me,” and he obeys.

It was slower in his imagination, more tender and more like love. She is wild beneath him, hasty and rough. “Harder,” she demands, and she sounds angry so he gives her what she wants. The bed thumps rhythmically against the wall, and Missy is loud and so is he. He hopes no one can hear them, but then she shouts his name, begging, and then he doesn't care. 

He changes their position, lowers his mouth to her breasts. He catches a nipple between his teeth, bites down just hard enough to hurt. She digs her fingernails into the skin on his back and he takes it as approval. Another bite and then he moves to curve of her breast, sucking on the skin to leave a mark. The next mark is on her shoulder, and the next is placed on her neck, just low enough for the collar of her blouse to cover it when this is over.

When he kisses her she bites down on his lower lip, tugging it between her teeth and making sure it hurts. The scratches on his back sting and she adds more, deeper ones this time as her nails dig in further. 

He moves his hands to her hips, pulling her closer still, holding her flush against him. Then, on a sudden whim, he stops. He withdraws almost completely, waits.

Missy writhes, whimpers, almost sobs. She orders him to move, demands that he continue. He hears anger creeping into her voice as he remains where he is, not moving an inch. Finally she realises what he wants, and after a minute of complaining she gives in.

“Please,” she begs, “don't stop. Don't ever stop. I'll do anything, I'll say whatever you want, just fuck me, _please_.”

It's enough. He pushes back into her with a force that makes her cry out and slams the bed against the wall. 

She doesn't hold back. “More,” she pleads between moans, “harder, deeper.” 

He dips his head to kiss her, and a building pressure in his groin reminds him that this can't last forever. He needs to make her come, and he'd like to make her scream when she does.

Her lips move against his mouth. “Please, Doctor, please. I'm so close, almost there. Just a bit more, please. Don't stop.”

He runs through a mental list of what her old bodies liked, what his other partners have enjoyed, what might tip her over the edge. He shifts, trying to find the right angle, and finally he gets it right and hits some hidden spot inside her that makes her entire body shake.

She screams – actually screams – and if that doesn't wake the others then nothing will. She bites down on his shoulder and there's no way that isn't going to leave a mark. Her internal muscles tighten around him and he lets go as well, losing any semblance of a rhythm and pushing into her with desperate graceless thrusts. 

He pushes himself up and off her, deals with the condom before falling onto his back beside her on the bed. “That was good.”

“It'll do for a start,” she says, her voice a little shaky. He raises her eyebrows at her words. “Seventy years, Doctor,” she continues, “you owe me much more than just that.” She stretches against the mattress. “I think I'll go on top next time.”

“Forget it,” he says, too tired for ego, “there's no way I can do that again tonight.”

She rolls onto her side to face him. “Can I sleep here?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. He's fairly sure he couldn't walk right now if he wanted to and he assumes the same is true for her. He turns, slips an arm around her waist. He yawns. “If anyone heard anything I'm going to feign ignorance, just so you know.”

She smiles and closes her eyes. “I'll say I saw a mouse. A big scary mouse that threw furniture against the walls.”

“Good idea,” he says, already half-asleep. 

He dreams of her, of course.


End file.
